Matt Wilcoxen

Saturday, 7 April 2007

He leaves no roomFor his own hand; you shall be history,You shall build heaven, you shall quarry hell,No one shall say you have (or not) made well.And, bored and pious, talk of mystery,When weeds are choking up his tomb.

We make, he sleeps. Only his bloody dreamsTell him the works of freedom on the earth.Your liberty his flight, your future and his death.He dreams your hell for you to draw your breath,Out of his emptiness he lets your birth,It is his silence echoes back the screams.